


Into Your Darkest Hour

by idoltina



Series: Our Hands Over Our Eyes [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Blindness, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s05e03 The Quarterback, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:19:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just prior to 05x03 -- The Quarterback. Kurt, Blaine, and Rachel struggle to deal with Finn’s passing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into Your Darkest Hour

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** canonical character death, Rachel’s immediate reaction to Finn’s death

A glass shatters in the kitchen.

Kurt and Santana run in from where they’ve been lounging in the living room at the sound. Kurt gets there first, eyes falling to the shards of glass on the floor. He feels Santana bump into him as he lifts his gaze to a terrified-looking Rachel. “Rachel,” he says sharply, reaching for a broom and dustpan to sweep up the mess. “What happened? What’s wrong?” His hand encloses around the handle of the broomstick before he notices that she’s trembling. “Rachel?”

“Kurt?” she ventures, and her voice cracks halfway through his name.

Slowly, Kurt releases his grip on the broom handle, and it’s with care that he navigates around the glass on the floor and moves toward her. “Rachel?” he prompts again. Santana takes his place, cleaning up the mess behind him. He closes the rest of the distance between them and gently rests a hand on her arm, brow wrinkling in confusion when she starts a little at the contact.

“Kurt,” she says again, and there’s a thickness in her voice that wasn’t there before, one he usually only hears when she’s about to cry.

“Kurt,” he affirms, ducking his head a little to get a better look at her face. “Rachel, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t -- I can’t see,” she says, quiet and a little breathless. “I can’t -- I can’t see, I can’t see, _I can’t see_ , Kurt --” Her hand is on his arm suddenly, tight and vice-like and she’s starting to hyperventilate and she can’t stop saying it -- _I can’t see, I can’t see, I can’t see._

He doesn’t know how many times she says it before it really hits him, what she’s saying, what it means. He feels frozen, rooted to the spot, and his eyes are wet and he feels very, very cold. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out, and Rachel is starting to cry and she’s going to collapse on the floor and Kurt doesn’t know what to _do_ \--

Santana is there, swift and steady and calm. She helps Rachel onto the floor and sinks down next to her, glancing up at Kurt as she does so. “Call your dad,” she instructs, quiet but firm. “Find out what you can.”

“I -- yeah,” Kurt breathes, stumbling out of the kitchen to retrieve his phone from the living room. He doesn’t even realize that his hands are shaking until he tries finding his dad’s number in his list of contacts, and it takes him three tries before he can dial correctly and press the phone against his ear, clinging to sound.

His dad picks up on the third ring, voice immediately warm to Kurt’s senses. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Dad,” he whispers, unable to keep the tremors out of his voice.

And his dad knows, because his dad always knows, and Kurt clings to the phone as if his father is in the room with him. “What’s wrong?”

“Rachel,” he says, and he has to stop, swallow, pull himself together. “Rachel can’t see.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone before his dad responds. “You and Santana are with her?”

Kurt glances over his shoulder to where the girls are curled up together on the floor of the kitchen. Rachel’s almost hyperventilating and Santana’s hands are anchored on either side of her face and Kurt just wants to throw up. “Yeah,” he affirms, closing his eyes and turning back around.

“Keep your phone close,” his dad instructs. “I’m gonna make a few calls, do some digging, see what I can find out.”

That’s it, nothing else. No goodbye, no parting words. The line goes dead and Kurt’s hand feels empty and dead with weight.

There is nothing left for him to do but wait.

* * * * *

It’s several hours before Kurt’s phone makes any sound at all, and he can’t bring himself to move from where he’s taken up camp on the kitchen floor to take the call. He’s sitting close to the girls but not close enough to touch. None of them have spoken for hours. They don’t need to. They don’t want to. Kurt knows who is on the other end of that line, and he knows exactly what his father is going to say.

He gets fragments of what his dad is saying -- _think Carole’s finally asleep, had to identify the body_ \-- but they’re enough of a confirmation. Kurt meets Santana’s questioning eyes with an almost imperceptible nod, and he has to look away when Santana whispers “yeah” against Rachel’s skin.

Kurt presses the phone harder against his ear in the hopes that his dad’s voice will drown out Rachel’s renewed sobs. “You need to come home, Kurt.”

“Yeah,” Kurt breathes, wiping the first of what he knows will be many tears from his eyes. “Yeah, I will.”

* * * * *

The twenty minutes that Blaine waits at the airport feel like an entire hour at least. He can’t seem to sit still, can’t stop the jittering movements of his arms and legs and fingers. He’s not sure who all knows yet, but he can’t think about it right now. He’s not even sure it’s hit him, yet. Blaine’s spent the last year learning, understanding himself as a person, and he knows himself well enough by now to know what happens when he’s ready to fall apart. He knows that he shuts down. He knows he gets quiet. He knows he gets still. He knows he feels numb.

He doesn’t know what he feels, now.

He doesn’t have long to dwell on it, though, because the plane has landed and pulled up at the gate. When Kurt rounds the corner on the other side of security, Blaine feels his heart stop for the briefest of seconds. Kurt isn’t alone, of course; he’s trailed closely by Santana, whose arm is linked tightly through Rachel’s. Together, the three of the cross the threshold, and then Kurt is speeding up. He leaves his luggage a good five feet behind him and throws himself into Blaine’s arms, exhaling slowly. He is warmth and weight and anchor and color in Blaine’s arms, and Blaine feels his heart begin to beat back to life. They stand together for several long moments, a luxury that Blaine selfishly takes, and when they finally pull apart, Kurt slides his hand down and links their fingers together, the metal of his ring comforting against Blaine’s skin.

“Blaine,” Santana says, and even though Kurt shifts to the side a little, Blaine knows that she’s not greeting him. His name is voiced for Rachel’s benefit -- and god, Rachel. Blaine has absolutely no idea what to say to her, no idea if he should hug her or even touch her. She and Santana won’t let go of each other -- or maybe it’s that Santana won’t let go of her.

(Rachel can’t let go of Santana’s arm without being lost to the dark, and while he would never say it out loud, Blaine feels insensitive for even thinking it.)

In an agreed silence, the four of them gather up luggage and head out of the airport to Blaine’s car, the monochrome leading the blind, armored by color.

* * * * *

Santana stays with Rachel. Blaine pulls into the Hummel-Hudson driveway with the intention of dropping Kurt off, but Kurt just tightens his grip on Blaine’s hand and pulls him into the house. Blaine knows what it means without Kurt having to say a word.

_Please, don’t let go._

So Blaine follows him, because he would follow Kurt anywhere, through every lifetime. But Blaine feels uncomfortable being there for the first time in a long time; he feels like he’s intruding on something very private, and if Kurt didn’t need him here, didn’t want him here, Blaine’s not sure he’d be here at all. The feeling is amplified momentarily when they meet Burt in the living room. Blaine stands back while Kurt hugs his father, eyes trained on the floor, and it’s not until Burt addresses him that Blaine can look back up.

“Is this okay?” Blaine asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Blaine sees Kurt squeeze his father’s hand, another silent communication, and that’s all it takes for Burt to give his answer. “Yeah,” he says, coughing a little and gesturing for Blaine to join them. “Yeah. I think we could use all the family we can get right now.”

In the arms of his fiancé and his future father-in-law -- with Carole just upstairs -- the house feels strangely empty, and Blaine feels his body start to go still.

* * * * *

Kurt keeps himself busy. It helps him while he grieves, being able to focus his energy into something practical. Having Blaine here helps him, too; he anchors Kurt when Kurt would otherwise feel adrift. And Kurt _needs_ that, now more than ever. They’ve only just recently regained their color, and Kurt absolutely refuses to allow himself to feel lost in it. Color is bright and vibrant. Color makes him feel safe. _Blaine_ makes him feel safe. And even though there’s a hole in Kurt’s chest that grows bigger by the minute and leaves him aching, it’s surrounded by waves of color that keep the pain at bay. And the only way Kurt will ever lose color again is if death takes it from him.

( _No._ )

Kurt remembers talking to Finn over Thanksgiving last fall, just after he’d started talking to Blaine again. He remembers the relief in Finn’s voice at hearing the news, remembers how even when Finn had been in Kurt’s corner, he’d still tried bridging the gap between Kurt and Blaine.

_He said you were his anchor_ , Finn had told him. _I think he felt lost without you._

Kurt wonders if Finn had felt lost then, too.

Kurt wonders if that’s how Rachel feels now.

He pushes the thought down and away and climbs the stairs, carefully avoiding Finn’s bedroom. He finds Blaine perched awkwardly on the side of his old bed, sitting on his hands, but Blaine unearths them once Kurt enters the room and holds one out wordlessly, waiting.

Kurt takes Blaine’s hand, and together, they are anchored.

“Can you come with me?” Kurt sighs, suddenly tired and needing to focus. “There are a bunch of boxes in the attic from when we helped arrange Jean Sylvester’s funeral, and I need to dig through them to --”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

Wordlessly, Blaine nods and follows him to the attic. Together, they navigate around and through boxes. Blaine offers Kurt his handkerchief when the dust causes him to sneeze, and even after he’s done using it, Kurt tucks it away in his pocket, unsure when he’ll be ready to give it back. “I don’t know how to comfort Rachel,” he blurts. Blaine doesn’t say anything, but he stops sorting through the items in a box and settles against another closer to Kurt, listening. Kurt sinks back onto his haunches and rests his palms on his thighs. “I’ve hardly spoken to her since it happened,” he admits. “I don’t know how. I don’t know what to say to her. I feel like anything I say will just make it worse.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say to her either,” Blaine says quietly. “I don’t.”

It’s not an answer. It’s not advice. But it reminds Kurt that he is not alone in what he feels, and even when he is lost, he can turn to Blaine and find an anchor amidst the color. So Kurt weaves their fingers together and curls up against Blaine’s side, resting his head against Blaine’s chest.

Blaine is remarkably still underneath him, and Kurt knows that he’s quietly falling apart inside.

* * * * *

Rachel’s dads let Blaine in, and even here, Blaine feels uncomfortable. But he’s here because Kurt needs him to be, and Blaine honestly isn’t sure which place is worse for him to be in right now. He heads up the stairs, envelope in hand, with the intention of finding Santana, and rounds the first corner. “Santana?”

He finds Rachel instead, curled up in her old bed, fingers nervous and unsure against the fabric of the sheets. “Blaine,” she says, like she knows it’s him, but there’s a guesswork quality to her voice that’s not normally there. “Santana’s in the shower.”

“Oh,” he says, faltering a little. “Okay, I, um -- I just… brought the information for the service and everything. Kurt would’ve come, but --”

Rachel nods like she understands, and maybe she does, but Blaine is still left wondering if she’s stung by Kurt’s withdrawal. “You can leave it on the dresser,” she says quietly. “I’ll let Santana know.” Blaine does as she requests, lingering awkwardly for a moment before remembering his conversation with Kurt earlier in the week -- he doesn’t know what to say to her, doesn’t know what to say to anyone at all. So Blaine bottles up the words that don’t exist and prepares to make a silent exit, turning to face the door.

“I’m never going to see you and Kurt get married.”

The words sting at Blaine’s eyes and he loses his breath very quickly, hardly able to turn around. Still, he has nothing, no words, nothing at all, but it’s _okay_ \-- Rachel doesn’t seem to mind. “I’ve been thinking about a lot this week, and I realized -- I’m never going to see you guys get married. I’ll be there, of course, but I won’t _see it_ , not the way I did the proposal.” The ache in Blaine’s chest twists and burns with her words. So _much_ has been lost -- life and sight and innocence -- and Blaine can do little more than let the tears spring to his eyes. “And then -- then I realized,” Rachel continues, voice faltering a little, “how selfish it was of me to even think about it.”

“It’s not,” Blaine rushes to reassure her, the only words he has, because Rachel is perfectly entitled to grieve everything she’s lost.

“It _is_ ,” she insists, tears spilling onto her face. “It is, because he doesn’t even get to _be there_. He’s _gone_ , Blaine, and I have to live with that every day for the rest of my life in a way that none of you do.”

The words feel almost hostile and accusatory in a way that Blaine’s not sure Rachel means for them to be, and his first instinct -- his only instinct -- is to give her a way out (to run away). “Do you want me to leave?” he asks thickly, barely keeping the tears at bay.

Rachel doesn’t just soften at the question -- she crumbles, crying a little harder. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “Can you -- can you just come sit with me?” she requests. “Will you come hold my hand for a little while?” The request seems easy in comparison to words, so it’s in silence that Blaine crosses the room and sinks down on the bed next to her, hand slipping loosely into hers.

It makes him miss Kurt.

Rachel doesn’t hold his hand very tightly, and it takes Blaine a few minutes to really understand why she’d asked him to do it. Touch is one of the senses she has to rely on in place of sight, now, and with his hand tucked in hers, Blaine realizes it’s one of the only ways she can really be sure of him.

It makes her feel like she’s not alone.

* * * * *

The night before the funeral is rough. Everyone is tired and worn and a little cried-out, frayed around the edges and barely holding on. But Blaine knows that tonight is important -- in a lot of ways, it’s almost the eye of the storm, calm and cold before it starts to rage again. So he keeps his grief to himself and tries to do what he can, at least for Kurt. Sleep has been kind of all over the place for everyone all week, so Blaine makes his way to the kitchen in the hopes that Kurt will take a glass of warm milk as the kind gesture Blaine intends it to be and not as a painful reminder of something he’ll never have again.

He doesn’t even make it to the refrigerator.

Carole is in the kitchen table, eyes lost in her tepid mug of tea. Blaine hesitates at the doorway when she looks up, and he scrambles for words just to fill the silence. “I just came to get some milk,” he says hurriedly. “For Kurt.” Carole nods and looks back down at her mug, quiet. Blaine works quickly to accomplish his mission, grateful that Carole doesn’t try speaking to him (grateful that she doesn’t even look at him).

He’s just about to leave the kitchen, almost home-free, when she takes his hand in hers as he passes by the table. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t look beyond where their hands are clasped together. He can hear her breathing, calm and steady, and he can’t decide which is worse -- her speaking or him trying to break the ice.

“I’m not trying to be a replacement,” he blurts.

He can feel her hand tense in his and it’s too late, now. The words are out there, words he didn’t know he had, words that he suspects have been quietly locked in him since he first got here earlier in the week. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to meet her eyes, and his words run away from him again, gone before he can even think about holding them back. “I just don’t want you to think of me as a replacement.”

( _His_ replacement.)

Carole is quiet for a moment as she surveys him, and she surprises him when the corner of her mouth twitches up into a sad smile. “I don’t.”

Blaine exhales slowly and _oh_ , there the tears are, fresh and hot and finally spilling onto his cheeks. Carole doesn’t get up -- he doesn’t expect her to -- but she squeezes his hand in kind, and even though Blaine is not a replacement, it’s the first time all week that the house feels filled with Finn’s presence.

And with Carole’s hand in his -- Burt and Kurt just upstairs -- Blaine is not alone.

* * * * *


End file.
